I survey a field of green.
A green tea haven of geisha girls and butterflies.
I watch it swell and Bloom.
I see the greenery swallow.
I watch the forest grown brown.
It swells in its own poison.
Browning, flaking in its own skin.
Dried in envy at its own finality.

Fingers against the portrait.
Dragging the vision into despair.
Landscape lop-sided.
Stock photo nightmare.
Bared against the lies.
Deformation of character, a characteristic cliché.
A teardown of deception is more like it.
But let's lay close to our lilo of lies in the cesspool of sporadic secrets.

The day said no
My toast said absolutely not.
Everything I tried to be said absolutely ******* not.
I woke to an angry wall
And the angels did a Mexican wave.
And I just stared
Helpless.
And in my moment of deliverance,
I was handed stiff kittens.

The end is oh so sweet.
We're telling the story as they see it.
As they want to hear it.
To take it in.
They try to adopt it.
And we spiel on. Speak and spiel and ramble. A sad story never told but never heard. And never listened to.
Our deaf concert. Our gouged eyed gallery.
Ours but silent.
Ours but deficient.
Ours but just for us.
As we twirl down and around this silly path together, one tiptoe behind the other.
You and me him and I.
The object and the thing.
This is me and we are it.
The object, slammed and squished down the plughole, by grotty fingers through a grimey grate. That is grateful. Because. And this is the real cuntfucker.
I am.
I exist.
I stain a stainless slab of green.
In an endless ocean of nightmares for those that have vision to see but are deaf enough to see. And
Now you have it
My heart in your hands.
And the beat is a rhythm for you to play.
So let the deconstructed Orchestra fill the room.
And let's allow.
Just this once.
The little boy to sing.

We're edging everybody!
We're edging!
We're ready for the main course!
We're breathless
We're bracken
We're broken.
We're rolly polly turning and spinning and lost and out of control.
But.
We're.
Putting on a **** good show!

My drug smuggling little sprite.
My glorious dazzle of ******.
My sinful glass of slaughter.
My favourite colour of wrist.
My red of colour of wrist.
My colour of wrists of wrist
My wrist of wrist of wrist
Wrist of wrists of wrists.
Wrist of red of colour
My favourite is red
Red wrists is what I like.

You're happy are you?
Truly?
Since the day you were spat out of your **** ****?
Well I doubt it.
If you were you wouldn't be here.
Cursing the hole you crawled out of.